Greg House's Super Secret Blog
by fourleggedfish
Summary: House's blog, which nobody knows he writes. House's POV, first-person. To be updated as often as I can...sorry for the long break.
1. November 6, 2009

Okay, so I got this idea while reading entries on the house_reqs LJ comm. I think someone tried it out a few years ago and then stopped, but it was a great idea so I'm going to give it a go. I'll try to post one every day, from House's POV, as if House were writing a blog. It's also going to be an experiment for me because I have problems writing from House's POV, so I guess this is practice or something. Anywho, here goes. :)

**Title: **Greg House's Super Secret Blog, 11/6/2009  
**Word Count: **1600  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Comments/concrit welcome! **Like I said, it's a writing exercise of sorts, so...

* * *

November 6, 2009

4:20 pm

For the record, I'm doing this under protest. My stupid therapist thinks I have problems expressing myself, and for some reason, he's under the mistaken impression that writing a daily blog is good practice for learning proper emote-ability. Moron. Actually, what he really wanted me to do was keep a diary. Yes, like a prepubescent girl, complete with the cute fluffy-tipped pink pen and the heart-shaped lock that any moron above the age of three could pick. Like it would help to keep a log of my own patheticness. All he's teaching me to do is vent better and create new and more scathing methods of insulting people since I have time enough to employ my entire vocabulary in writing form. When I'm speaking to someone, I have to fly by the seat of my pants. I admit, not everything that comes out that way is worthy of my skills as a complete bastard.

On second thought, maybe this _is_ a good idea. I should anonymously send people links to it so they can see just how much I _actually_ filter out when I go off on them. I think they might be surprised to learn how much I'm holding back. (For "they", read, "James E. Wilson, sanctimonious Pain In The Ass.")

God, I hate Wilson sometimes. That stupid fucking bastard can't get it through his thick skull that he actually is a serial womanizer. He thinks I'm just being a dick when I point it out (which I guess maybe I am, but somebody needs to tell him). It doesn't occur to him that maybe, just maybe, I actually do have his best interests at heart. I mean, come on! He's worse than I am. At least I have the grace to be a bastard from day one. Nobody could ever claim that I led them on or concealed my true intentions. No. I don't play that game (most of the time). I'm not that mean. WYSIWYG.

But then there's Wilson. He latches onto people and then sucks the neediness right out of them. I suppose I should give him props for at least going after the right kind of person – "right kind" being the sort who get off on his fawning, because really, he's like this smotherer. He just gets his claws into people and refuses to let go, and he just heaps presents and attention and sex on them, and the next thing he knows, he's married and miserable because they don't have the first fucking clue about who he really is, or what he really likes, or what he really wants. And then these women end up confused and upset because they suddenly realize they have no idea who they married, and he's off screwing nurses or waitresses or random girls he meets in bars, or the secretary at his mechanic's shop while he's getting an oil change… I wonder how many STD's he's had in his life.

Note to self: pull Wilson's medical file. Not his hospital records; his alias file. He has to have one. All good doctors have a public as well as a genuine medical file. I'll have to find his real one.

Second note to self: Come up with new alias for self and transfer all records. Wilson knows my current alias.

Third note to self: Buy a Slurpee on the way home.

Anyway…Wilson. Jesus Christ on crutches. I caught him doing his come-hither thing with a new staff oncologist today. Redhead, lithe…I'm 72% sure she was a Playboy centerfold in the eighties.

Fourth note to self: Conduct background check on The Redheaded Step Sister.

So anyway, there was Wilson, showing off his stupid dimples like a moron, leaning on the clinic counter in one of his little-boy-oncologist poses, with his hand on her elbow. When will that man learn? She's only flirting back because she can use him. She's on the verge of filing for bankruptcy. (I know this because the rubber is worn off the tips of her heals; I saw her footprints in the mud out in the parking lot, and she's had her clothes altered to account for a slight gain in weight brought on by changing her diet from organic food to processed, which is cheaper, rather than buying new clothes. Plus, she did the alterations herself instead of going to a seamstress; she has calluses on the edge of her thumb from using a sewing machine, and a bandage on the left edge of her right index finger, next to the nail, from where she probably sewed herself on accident. She's a doctor. If she weren't hurting for money, she's still be eating good food, and she'd buy a new cache of power suits instead of trying to make her old ones look trendy.) So she's only interested in him because if she can snag him, she'll be able to cut her living expenses and avoid filing chapter 7. But Wilson doesn't see that. He can smell it, I'm sure; there have to be pheremones associated with desperation, and Wilson's programmed to drool over them like Pavlovian imbecile. But he can't _see_ it.

He's not going out tonight, though. It's Friday – movie night. He already promised he'd hang out with me, so I have time to convince him that she's not good for him. We're still living together, too. I think he's pissed about that, but I can't tell for sure. I know he doesn't really want me there or he wouldn't have made me sleep on the couch for six weeks. He would have let me have the other bedroom right away. But I can't go home. It's dusty and there's no power. And there's Vicodin all over the place. I know he tried to clean the place out, but Wilson's no addict; he doesn't know how to think like one. And my leg hurts all the time still. I don't know if I could stop myself from taking one. Or four. I'd probably OD; my body couldn't handle the amount I used to take, but I don't know if I could stop at just one. I hate them, I really do, but sometimes I remember how they tasted – bitter and chalky, and completely disgusting – but my mouth will water at the thought of having one. I can't go back there. I'd rather sleep in the creepy Amber shrine and go nuts again than go back there. How pathetic is that?

I can't tell that to Wilson though. He'd think I was angling for something. The thing is, I don't even know what he'd think I was angling for, but he wouldn't ever be caught dead taking the things I say at face value. He's a jerk that way. Greg House must always have ulterior motives. I have to be manipulating something out of him. The jerk feeds on needy people, and yet he can't see that sometimes, I just need him to shut the hell up and…I dunno. Be the Jimmy that women fall all over.

Scratch that; it came out wrong. I mean, why can't he be the Jimmy that everybody else gets? The nice, comforting, helpful one? I'm not saying I want him to flirt with me or woo me or something, or treat me like one of his simpering fangirls, just… I don't even know what I'm saying. It's like I'm the only one he doesn't… I dunno. I can't figure it out. I just…don't ever get _him_. Nobody does, but it seems like other people get more of him than I do.

Forget it. I don't even know what I mean. Stupid Nolan. See, this is what happens when I get in touch with my inner drama queen. I just get confused and pissed off. Fuck it. I'm going home.

November 6, 2009

10:36 pm

Wilson cancelled on me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Who wouldn't want to take out a hot redheaded centerfold rather than watch crappy old movies on the couch with some guy he has to see every day? I don't know why I'm even disappointed. It's not like he's never done it before, and I'm perfectly capable of watching TV alone. I do it all the time.

Sometimes I wish I could hurt him back. I don't want to punch him or anything, I just want him to feel it too sometimes. I want him to feel like somebody reached into his gut with both hands and wrung out his stomach. And then I want him to try and keep a straight face so the other guy doesn't know how much it hurts to be expendable to the one person whose opinion of him actually matters. And I want him to go home alone and sit in the fucking dark on his squishy-ass unsupportive couch and wonder why he's not good enough, why he's never the more important person. And I want him to get so mad that all he can do is grit his teeth and refuse to fucking cry like a stupid little kid while he convinces himself that it doesn't actually matter that his best friend only gives a crap when it doesn't interfere with his libido. And then I want him to cry anyway, because it _does _matter, and he can't make it stop mattering. Fucking prick.

I take it back. I _do _want to punch him, because he'll never get it, and he'll never feel that, and at least getting his nose broken will hurt. I should have let him leave after Amber died. He's right. We're not friends. He's just my fucking babysitter.

I hope his new trollop gives him herpes.


	2. November 7, 2009

**Title: **Greg House's Super Secret Blog, 11/7/2009  
**Word Count: **2600  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Spoilers: **Through the end of season five, and season 6 to date  
**A/N: **I'm working on my other stories too, just trying to keep hold of my muse by any means possible. Please comment and give concrit. I'm trying to get my House-voice down. Thanks!

* * *

November 7, 2009

12:02 am

I hate this stupid blog. It's like my new best friend. Literally.

Stupid-ass Wilson came home about an hour ago. I could smell the sex on him. The slut (_Wilson_, not the Redheaded Step Bitch; she seems more of a whore than a slut) probably did it in the car. Not _his _car, though. Oh no. If there's a no eating rule in his preppy Volvo, I'm sure there's a no gizzing rule too. No, he probably did it in the back seat of _her _car. God, the man's a fucking whore.

I can't sleep. My leg is killing me, and he's over there in his bedroom playing with dead people, or whatever the hell he does with his imaginary girlfriend. He didn't even say anything to me, except, "Hey, House. Have a good night in?" I think I grunted at him, or maybe I glared. I dunno. He just swaggered off like a guy who got some less than an hour ago, and shut his bedroom door. That's Wilson-speak for, "I have better things to do than occupy a room with you." I guess he didn't want to miss his quack-therapy appointment with dead-Amber. It's not like I'm not sitting _right _fucking here, Wilson. But no, wait, that's right. Talking to _me_ just makes you feel crappier, because there's no way I know what it feels like to be lonely and depressed. How could I forget?

Asshole.

God, I'd give anything for a buzz saw right now. Or a butter knife; I don't care anymore. What the hell were they thinking? Give the cripple Welbutrin and Tylenol; he'll be fine. All he needs are happy pills. That'll make the gaping hole in his leg all better. It's not like there was nerve damage. Dammit. What, exactly, made them think there would never be breakthrough pain? You don't send a cripple home without rescue meds, especially one already prone to doing drugs out of desperation. It's not _all_ in my head. It's not. Some of it is, yeah, I know, I get it – conversion disorder. Some of it's just stress and shit coming out in my leg. But it _hurts_, it fucking _hurts_. They won't even give me a muscle relaxant because those can be addictive too, and I'm an addict, and therefore I am apparently no longer entitled to certain kinds of treatment, like PAIN RELIEF. Who cares that it cramps and the spasms make me wanna smash my head against the wall just to render myself blessedly unconscious. Fuck. Instead, I get a blog. Because ranting on the internet is the safe substitute for Vicodin.

I still have the bottle I found in my shoe when I went to my apartment the other day. If it weren't a hundred metaphorical miles away in the living room, hiding on a bookshelf, I'd already be floating in that wonderful Vicodin haze. Like the Beatles song, except not with LSD. Newspaper taxis and cellophane trees. It fucking hurts. Why doesn't anyone give a fuck? I could be screaming right now and Wilson would just pound on the wall and tell me to stop interrupting his imaginary conversation. Or he'd explain all the ways in which it's just in my head, because I'm officially crazy, and _everything _is just in my head now. Or he'd tell me that by caring about my being in agony, he's just enabling my attention-seeking behavior, or –

Never mind. He wouldn't. I know he wouldn't. He's Wilson. He can't just _not _help.

I have to go. I can't sit here anymore because I'll end up taking a pill, and I can't pace because Wilson will get all worry-faced. And not about me and the reason behind the pacing; he'll just worry that The Canadian will take away his precious little garden. Like Canadians are scary or something. They're like American-lite.

No, I take it back again. He'd worry. He's Wilson. It's like a biological imperative.

I'm going for a walk. Outside. And I hope I get mugged and somebody has the decency to beat me unconscious since I can't drug myself to get there.

* * *

November 7, 2009

8:28 am

Okay, I just had the weirdest fucking dream. I was outside someplace in a parking lot and Wilson showed up, because apparently I was following him on his date. Stalking, he would say. Semantics, I would say. Anyway, not the point. The point is, Wilson goes up to some random car and the Red Headed Step Sister is in the back seat. So he climbs in and shuts the door, and…you know. Wilson gets his funk on. So I get all pissed, right? And I go up to the car too and climb in there with them. I look at Wilson, and he's completely ticked off, but at least he still has all his clothes on. The girl gets out, though, and Wilson glares at me and says, "What the hell?" And I say, "Why can't you just fuck _me _over for once?" And he says, "Fine, I will."

Thank god I woke up before he actually did.

There. I'd like to see you dissect that one, Nolan. You quack.

I walked for about an hour last night, then came back and fell asleep on the couch. I checked on Wilson first though. I'm not really sure why. I think I just wanted to make sure he was still there, or something. I dunno, like the vengeful ghost of Amber might get him while he sleeps? Dragging chains and lock boxes and all, like a super-hot version of Marley?

Actually, that would be me she comes after. She wouldn't go after Wilson; all he's guilty of is bad taste in friends and an inability to get rid of me.

I really am crazy. And these idiots want to give me back my license. What's really sad is even though I'm not hallucinating anymore, and I know I'm not hallucinating anymore, I can't be really sure. Like, _really_ sure. Hell, I thought Wilson's pathetic late night musings were just in my head. Which means that I wouldn't know if I actually lost it again, right? I hear real things and think they're fake, and I hear fake things and think I had wild monkey sex with Cuddy. And they want to give me my license back anyway because hell, I'm Doctor House. Seems that's all I'm good for after all. Nolan was wrong. Nothing changes. It doesn't matter if I'm happy or healthy; it matters that I cure patients and impress donors so Cuddy can squeeze more money from the stupid turnips.

I smell bacon. Wilson's making bacon. That sacrilegious Jew. I have to go out and steal his bacon.

Ha. Stealing Wilson's pork. I'm gonna go out there and tell him that.

* * *

November 7, 2009

11:30am

Oh my god, my staff are morons. Why the hell did I hire these people? Oh, that's right – Cuddy made me do it. She's a moron too, though her delectable love apples make up for it. I think she does it on purpose. She stands right up in front of me all the time with her shirts cut down to her belly button, practically. She _knows_ I can see in there, what with how she always shoves her chest in my face. Maybe she gets an ego boost from it, like therapy for her aging, frumpy soul. So, that makes staring at her boobs an act of kindness, right?

Note to self: Ogle Cuddy's breasts before going home. She hasn't been objectified enough today, and if I don't do it, nobody will.

And for the record, I'm not ogling her out of altruism just to boost her self esteem. I'm doing it because I'm a jerk, I like looking at breasts, and she's leaving herself open for eye-abuse. She brings it upon herself. Who am I to deny her the right to have me undress her with my eyes? It's not half as bad as what I did to her with my brain back in May.

Eh. Not going there.

Anyway, my idiotic staff. You want to know what they did? They called me. First, they should know better than to call me on a Saturday morning when I'm not on call. So after I insult them for a few minutes (I guess "berate" or "harangue" or "verbally slaughter" might be better verbs), I go in, because really, I have nothing better to do than sit around and try not to roll my eyes every time I catch Wilson's stupid little post-fucked grin when he thinks I'm not looking.

So I drag my sorry ass into the hospital, and all the way up to my office – two hundred twelve steps from apartment to bike, and then four hundred forty three from the parking space to the conference room chair that should be a torture device. My ass goes numb within ten minutes of sitting down in one of those things.

Anyway, the morons! I'm going to go to the medical library, knock over a dozen bookshelves, and make them reorganize the place as punishment for being intractable idiots. What the hell do I pay them for? I could take their salaries from my department budget and buy a friggin' 103" LCD TV for my office (if I could figure out how to fit the thing through my door without smashing a wall, but even then, I'd probably still have enough left over to buy a new wall), and still maintain the same cure rate. They're not even teachable. Foreman might be, if he could contain his burgeoning ego within the confines of his misshapen skull. Chase is just goofy; I have to prompt him for answers or make shadow puppets. And Cameron's too busy ingratiating herself and picking out China patterns for the death banquet and getting adopted into the patient's family to be of any use to me. I miss Kutner. At least he knew it when he didn't know shit.

Still not going there.

Anyway, so I go in, and Foreman had already put the symptoms on the board, and it was so fucking obvious that I didn't even bother with the differential. I mean, seriously. If they can't figure it out on their own, then the patient deserves to die. It's like a sign from fricking god. Morgellons, people! Just because the CDC's too clueless to recognize it as a real disease doesn't mean it's _not _real. Fucking halfwits. You know what else used to be "not a real disease"? Schizophrenia. And absence seizures. And Parkinson's. All it took was a little research and a few papers by some doctors, and then, walah! People start recognizing them as real diseases. That doesn't mean that nobody got them _before_ the publications started.

Ugh. Foreman's giving me that look. He's standing in front of my desk as we speak. Little tin soldier. I'm going home.

God, I want a drink. Or a handful of pills. Or both, preferably both. Fuck them all, anyway.

* * *

November 7, 2009

1:50 pm

I took a pill.

Wilson wasn't here when I got back, and it hurt, and I'm sick of it hurting all the time and nobody giving a rat's ass, so I took it. Nobody even tried to stop me - nobody's even _here_. Wilson won't answer his cell phone, he didn't leave a note, I don't even know where he is.

So I guess that's it, right? I took a pill. Not like it matters.

* * *

November 7, 2009

7:18 pm

Wilson found out. He gave me that look, like he was just waiting for it. Like he was relieved or something to have it done. House is a sorry ass self-destructive loser, and the universe makes sense again. Cheers. I almost punched him, but I came in here and shut my door instead. Yes, like a moody teenager pissed at his parents – I slammed it and everything. Shut up about it.

He searched the entire apartment for more, like I contaminated his place with something contagious. Ooo, junkie germs! I refuse to go out there. He knocked on my door a few times, called me a child, told me to quit ignoring him. I shoved a chair under the doorknob. Now he's being even more of an OCD freak out there, and I'm stuck in here with Amber every which way I look. I can hear Wilson mumbling out there; he's probably talking to her. And they call _me _crazy. I guess it's only crazy when she talks back, huh?

I think I should call my shrink. Maybe I'll get lucky and interrupt his dinner.

* * *

November 7, 2009

9:40 pm

Nolan's busy somewhere. Some crisis or something. They said he'd call when it's over, but that was like two hours ago. That's just fucking typical.

Wilson's sitting outside my door. He thinks I have more pills in here. I wish. I told him to go fuck himself but he thinks I'm going to kill myself with them or something. He won't fucking shut up, like silence might kill me. Right now, he's out there telling me all about the tranny nurse's impending civil union or something. Like that's the one thing that might stop a suicidal person from offing himself. Not that I'm suicidal, because I'm not. I shouldn't have taken a pill. I don't even want another one; it made me sick to my stomach.

Speaking of which, the stench in here is starting to get a little overpowering. I shouldn't have used the trash can as an emesis basin. Oops.

Not to self: Don't puke anywhere in a room where you've barricaded yourself unless you have a Tupperware container to seal it in.

Those things are so cool – you snap on the lid, and I swear, it would contain even skunk juice.

I should test that.

Wilson's reminiscing now. Golf. The bastard. Hang on; I'm gonna yell at him to shut the hell up.

Great. Now he's talking to _her _again.

I'm hungry. And I want my piano. You know, I don't think I've played it since before I left for Mayfield. It probably needs to be tuned. Wilson cancelled all my utilities, so the cold probably fucked with it. That's not cheap, you know – tuning a piano. I should guilt him into paying for it.

God, Wilson. Go away already. I don't fucking care about how much you worry about me, you stupid, self-absorbed, cynical, useless prick. Go fuck your redhead.

I really need food. To leave or not to leave. How much is standing on principle worth? I know the second I open the door, he's gonna do one of his drive-by physicals on me just to make sure I'm not high, or jaundiced, or contracting dermatitis or something. And then he's going to ransack this room to make sure I haven't hoarded any more pills in here. Which is just going to piss me off, which he _knows_. And then we'll scream at each other and one of us will storm out. If it's me, he'll follow me like a fucking paranoid bloodhound, convinced I'm only going out to score. If it's him, I won't be able to keep up and he'll run off to find someplace to stick his dick.

He's talking again. Why does he have to be so goddamned annoying? Wait. He sounds funny.

Oh my god, he's crying.

Where the fuck is Nolan? Stupid preoccupied shrink – no, I don't want to leave a message with his service, and no, I don't want to talk to a different doctor. Dammit.

I don't know what to do. He's sitting on the floor outside my door, sniffling all over the place. It could be a ruse.

No, I can hear the snot.

Shit.

I'm dialing Nolan again. Maybe if I text him that I'm about to blow my brains out, he'll answer.

No, he'd probably take me seriously.

I'll call Cuddy. She'll come peel him off the floor. Yeah.

* * *

November 7, 2009

11:01 pm

How is this _my _fault? Seriously. Wilson's distraught, and Cuddy's pissed at _me_? I'm not the one who overreacted and worked himself into a fine lather. They took away my cell phone before I managed to lock them out again. I mean, really. What am I gonna do with the cell phone? Eat it? Now I can't even harass Nolan's answering service. I want to talk to my shrink. How pathetic is that? I want my therapist, and they won't let me have my fucking phone. They can go to hell.

_Now_ I want another pill just to spite them. But I'd settle for a cheeseburger. I'm so fucking hungry right now; the last thing I ate was Wilson's bacon this morning. They're trying to starve me out of here, though. I can't let them think it would work, or they'll start holding my meals hostage to force me to conform. I'd rather gnaw my own leg off. Solve two problems at once.

Does that sound crazy? It looks crazy when I read it over again. Shit. Now I _feel_ crazy again. Like Amber singing creepy old songs in a blues bar, crazy. I need my fucking cell phone. Don't they get it?

I'm gonna email Nolan. He might not get it until tomorrow, but it's better than sitting here listening to them whisper outside my door.

--TBC


	3. November 8, 2009

A/N - Thanks to all of you who have commented and PM'd with characterization tips. I really appreciate it. I tried to incorporate some into this section, but I still think I'm off a little bit. The part after this one will probably be better. Thanks!

* * *

November 8, 2009

8:50 am

Wilson and Cuddy just got their asses handed to them on a platter. (A big platter. It's hard accommodating Cuddy's ass. Wilson doesn't really have one. You know…concave man-ass.) (No, I have not ogled Wilson's ass.) (Not on purpose, anyway.)

Anywho. Nolan showed up at about five in the morning – actually showed up, like pounding at Wilson's door. There was some emergency last night on his ward, which I guess is fine. Like I can really call him a dick for just doing his job, right? Anyway, he completely tore those two apart. I think it had something to do with the seven voicemails and two emails I sent him. Which, actually, I can't believe I did. Nolan said I had a small meltdown. (Obvious Man to the rescue!) I have no idea what that was. One second I was fine, and then Wilson figured out I was high, and we just started shouting at each other. Then he started power-cleaning, which consists of a lot of banging and throwing things around while he straightens a bunch of crap that was already ruler-and-square straight. It's like a very angry Roomba with a lecturing option. And I couldn't be in the room with him anymore, so I went to the bedroom, and he followed. I guess that's when I actually lost it. He just stormed after me or something, stomp stomp stomp, and still yelling about what sort of idiot I am, taking Vicodin again, and how he wasn't the least bit surprised, because people don't change, and Greg House is no exception, and…I sort of blocked him out after that.

And then (after much impatient waiting), along comes Nolan. I'm not much for playing the damsel in distress, but it was kind of nice, him getting all hot and bothered over little old me. Granted, I did spend half the night harassing his call service, so he was probably already annoyed when he got here. I'm glad he ran into the Dastardly Duo first. (Remind me never to piss him off. He's scary when he's steamed.)

Number one: What the hell were you thinking, taking a cell phone away from a mental patient who is waiting for a call from his therapist? (In Cuddy's defense, I think she only grabbed it in the first place to see what it was. I sort of locked them out again after Wilson mentioned the pill, and she pulled her gorgon persona on me.)

Number two: You never, _never_ use food as a bargaining chip. That's just cruel. You're teaching him to be paranoid, to expect that his basic needs will be withheld whenever he makes a mistake or acts willfully. (I must have really sounded nuts in the messages I left him.) He's a grown man with legitimate, difficult issues, both mental and physical. Not a dog or a pet child, or a hostage. If you keep treating him as if he can't ever be responsible, can't ever make a choice for himself, then you're just going to send him right back to Mayfield. He has the right to choose to be an addict. (Hey, wait, what? Neat.) He chose _not_ to be. (Thank you. Glad _somebody_ noticed that part. You know – the _voluntary_ rehab part.) You're not giving him any sort of incentive to stick with that decision. (Repeat that for Wilson, please. He's selectively deaf in both ears.)

Number three: Considering that this is the first time he's fallen off the wagon in six months, you shouldn't be yelling at him and telling him how much he's failed at living clean. You should tell him how proud you are (I threw up a little in my mouth), and how hard you know it must have been, and encourage him to get back on track so that he doesn't figure it's pointless to even try anymore since nobody's rooting for him anyway. (Actually, that one annoyed me. What, like I need my own personal pep squad? An occasional acknowledgement might be nice, but I don't need a PPTH cheer team. Ick. But it made Cuddy turn an interesting shade of pink and she wouldn't even look at me after that, so…cool.)

Number four: Did either of you bother asking him _why_ he took a pill in the first place? (Yes, Wilson screeched, "Why, House? Why would you do something that – " And then he spluttered for a second, which was kind of cute, actually. Until he called me twelve different kinds of idiot and stalked away without giving me a chance to answer.) Did you try to talk about it with him? (They tried to _yell_ about it with me.) Or did you just treat him like the addict you think he still is? (ding ding ding! We have a winner.) Did you actually try to get an explanation from him at all? (Not one that they were willing to hear. Lies, Wilson says. Your leg doesn't hurt. It's all in your head.) Or did you just assume you already knew why he did it, since assuming is so much easier than actually knowing? (Asses and all.)

Number five: What kind of a sick fuck tries to torture his supposed best friend by sticking him in a bedroom stuffed with memorabilia of the dead girl he hallucinated less than six months ago?

Okay, Nolan didn't actually say "sick fuck." Or "supposed." Or, you know. "Torture." Or "dead girl memorabilia." I was reading between the lines, okay? Geez.

And after all the verbal flaying, which was pretty entertaining, I find out that Nolan brought me food! (I'm tempted to make one of those gay little smiley face emoticon thingies here to illustrate just how happy this makes my tummy, but I refuse to give in to the dark side.) He stopped someplace and got like twelve Belgian waffles, and a tub of strawberries, and three cans of Ready-Whip (no exaggeration), and a bottle of real maple syrup. _Real_, people. No friggin Aunt Jemima for me, no. I got the good organic shit. (That would sound so much more appropriate if applied to pot.)

I think I'll send Nolan a present to thank him, maybe send it to his office. People love it when they get presents at work because then everyone knows how awesome you are – so awesome that somebody went to the trouble of having goodies delivered. You know. Flowers, cookies, thank you cards…singing hooker telegrams…

Okay, so it wasn't actually entertaining at all. I wish it had been. Really, I wish I could just look at the incident and mock it because it's actually funny or ironic. But it's not. Since nobody's ever going to read this anyway, I guess it wouldn't hurt to just admit it. I'm fifty fucking years old. I shouldn't feel so damn useless. I can't even defend myself from my own best friend; I have to get a shrink to do it for me. Maybe I'm actually a coward or I can't stand confrontation, or maybe my best friend really does have so little faith in me that he won't listen to me ever again. I know I'm not the most honest person, but he used to trust me just a little bit. One tiny iota.

My stomach hurts. It's probably from throwing up earlier. And I'm so tired, I could sleep for a week. The shrink wants to have a last conversation with me first, though, which I suppose is fine. He did drive all the way out here; I may as well humor him. I'm still digesting anyway. And I have to pee. And dispose of the vomit. Maybe I can get Wilson to reimburse him for travel and breakfast expenses. _I'm_ sure as hell not doing it.

November 8, 2009

9:33 am

Nolan's gone. So is Cuddy. I told Wilson I was going to bed, but I can't sleep. Nolan asked if I wanted to go stay somewhere else. I asked him if he thought I should, and he said no. He thinks being here is mostly good for me, and good for Wilson too, but he wouldn't make me stay here if I wasn't comfortable. I only told him the current arrangement was fine because I honestly didn't know what else I could have said. I mean, where else could I go? Home? Mom's? A halfway house?

And then after Nolan left, Wilson… He thanked me. For agreeing to stay. I mean, what the hell is that, anyway? House, you make me feel bad, and you remind me of the dead love of my life (who I shtupped for all of 4 months before her tragic demise), and you're a burden, and you're turning my apartment into a drug stash and pissing off the apartment wellness committee (or whatever the hell that is), but thanks for sticking around. Wouldn't have it any other way.

And then – _and then_ – he says that he'll try harder. At what? The jackass doesn't even know what he's supposed to try harder _at_. But he wants to. Nolan told me to just _tell_ him when he pisses me off, but that's never worked well in the past. And please. Like I'm gonna whine over how he pwomissed he'd watch a movie with me, and then he didn't, and it bwoke my wittle heart and drove me back to the nasty dwugs.

That was sarcasm, in case you missed it. I have no heart, just in case you were keeping track. And I don't actually talk like that.

I don't know what to tell him. He finally _asked_ me why I took the pill. I told him he lost the right to know when he refused to give me my damn phone back. Dunno if that was a good idea. He got that stupid weepy look all over again. God, it's like fighting with a girlfriend. _You never share your feelings with me. We need to form an emotional bond. I want to know how you feeeeeeeel. _Yeah, well, tough titties.

And BTW, Wilson. If you don't already have a rough idea of how I feel, then you're a moron. I shouldn't have to explain it.

Oh, god. I actually pulled that card, didn't I. Isn't that supposed to be a girl line? That "If you don't already know, I'm not going to tell you" bullshit?

I think I overreacted a little bit anyway. I mean, come on. It was just a cell phone, and those two have been screwing with me and manipulating me for years. No reason to flip out, right? Nolan said my pulse was too high when he first got here, and then he offered to give me a sedative. I said no. I think seeing him helped. Which is sort of weird. I don't like it. I don't even _know_ him. But my leg started to feel better too. Fucking leg. I hate the stupid thing. Nolan thinks I had an anxiety attack, but damned if I know why. It would explain the paranoia though.

Wilson's standing in the doorway again. Whatever. Take a picture, jackass. In fact, I'll email you one. Go pout at _that_. You make my skin crawl.

I dunno. Maybe I'll talk to Wilson later. Or maybe it would be easier to just find a new apartment.

November 8, 2009

2:55 pm

The silent treatment is killing me. And it's not like Wilson is the one giving it, either. I'm the one not talking to him. And it sucks. He's been following me around the apartment, doing this hangdog thing. It's annoying and creepy, and it's making me feel like I'm the mean SOB. He was standing behind the couch at one point, just staring at the back of my head, so I got up to go back to bed or something, and he… I think he tried to hug me. I don't know for sure; I was too busy freaking out about it.

And, he wants to know what I'm doing on my laptop all the time. Nolan apparently told him it wasn't any of his business, so he's not pushing it or trying to pry, but I can tell he's curious. And worried. It sort of pisses me off, that he worries all the fucking time. Thing is, I don't know if I'm mad because he thinks he can stick his nose into my stuff, or because I don't like being the reason he's upset. I like messing with him, not depressing him. I wonder if I'm really reason he started taking psych meds. It was like three years ago when he said it, and he may have only said it to needle me, but that doesn't make it a lie. I don't want to be the reason Wilson's depressed. I know what it's like to be in that position.

I think I'll talk to him. Maybe over dinner. I can cook something. He actually likes my cooking. None of his wives could really cook – not that I'm comparing myself to one of his wives. I'm just saying; he probably doesn't get that often, a home-cooked meal he didn't slave over himself.

Yeah. I'll make him dinner. And maybe eat it with him. In the same room. While saying shit. That could work.

I wish I had guts enough to ask him if he thinks I killed her. I know I didn't. It was an accident, and _she_ took the amantadine. I didn't make her do anything, but she's dead because of me. I wonder if he thinks I'm a murderer. I mean, I know he doesn't, but it's the same sort of _not_ as when I say I know I didn't kill her. Intellectual versus emotional _didn't do it_. Sometimes I think he's trying to punish me. I know it's ludicrous; he hasn't done anything weird like that. But sometimes it feels like it.

November 8, 2009

7:10 pm

Now I remember why talking is such a waste of energy. Stupid me, letting Mayfield try to convince me otherwise. And the answer was yes, he thinks I killed her. Except not. The idiot won't commit either way. He says yeah, since I was the reason she was on the bus, I "bear some responsibility for her death." His words exactly. But then he completely twisted it around by saying something like, "But it was a freak accident. You couldn't have known that garbage truck would run the red light."

So now I have no fucking idea what he really thinks about _that_. Which I supposed means nothing's changed from a year ago. So…at least I know now. Whatever good that does me.

Oh, and he asked me about the pill again, and I told him that my leg hurt _again_, and he still doesn't believe me. He said my leg doesn't hurt. Like he would know. And then he tried to blubber some conversion disorder explanation – I already know I have one, jackass! That doesn't mean it's _all _in my head. And even if it is, IT STILL HURTS. My brain may have created the pain, but it's still _real _pain. If Vicodin won't stop it, then find me something that will. Anything, I don't care what. Don't just sit there on your sanctimonious ass and lecture me about how I handled it all wrong. You didn't give me any other options!

And then the bubble brain told me I should have kept cooking. Because apparently, the part where the novelty wore off and the pain came back just blew right past his fat head. So we yelled for a little bit, and he finally acknowledged that yeah, maybe it does "ache" once in a while. But he still doesn't believe that's why I took the pill _this _time. You know, I think that no matter how many times he says he believes I have breakthrough pain, he's never going to actually believe that that's why I take pills. It'll always be because I want to get high.

I should have actually said all of that to him. Truth is, I just sat there after he said he thought I was lying. There was no point in trying to correct him, and I just… It hurt. I actually felt my stomach turning over, like I might get sick right there at the table. I think he saw it on my face because he got this completely horrified look and excused himself.

Thank god tomorrow's Monday. Maybe the Morgellons girl is still there. I can see if the kiddies figured it out yet. If not, I suppose I'll have to give them a hint. Can't just leave patients laying around sick. Might give the hospital a bad rep.

Hm. Wilson's standing in my doorway again all sad-faced again. I guess I should see what he wants. Or not. I could just keep typing and see how long he's willing to stand there.

There was

A house

In New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun.

And it's _been_

The ruin

Of many a poor boy

No, I really hate that song. He's still staring, floppy hair and all. Why doesn't he just interrupt me and say he wants to talk to me? No, he has to stand there like some pitiful schmoop. Fine. If he won't say anything, I'm not acknowledging his presence.

Jeremiah was a bullfrog!

(Bwe-nep)

Was a good friend of mine.

(Bwe-nep)

I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him a-drink his wine.

(Ba-da-dum-da-duh-dum)

And he always had some mighty fine wine.

Singin'

Jo-o-o-o-o-oy to the world.

A-a-a-a-a-a-all the boys and girls na-aow.

What else can I randomly type? How about bones of the foot.

Calcaneus

Talus

Navicular bone

Cuboid

Lateral cuneiform

Intermediate cuneiform

Medial cuneiform

Metatarsals

Phalanges

Okay, this is boring. I may as well let Wilson get his weepy thing over with.

--TBC


	4. November 9, 2009

**Title: **Greg House's Super Secret Blog, 11/9/2009

**Word Count: **2200

**Rating: **PG-13

**Spoilers: **Through the end of season five, and season 6 to date

All caught back up to the present! :)

* * *

November 9, 2009

10:12 am

I think I'm going about this personal shit all wrong. As usual.

Okay, so. Maybe this blog thing can work as a white board. I'll just put it all on here and look at it, and it should make sense. Right? Yeah, no. I know. It's not that easy. But I'm desperate.

Last night, Wilson came to the Amber shrine and wanted to talk. Again. So I told him to talk. I even tried to be nice about it. I said, "So talk already." The _you fuck nut_ part didn't come out; I should get props for that. Maybe my Nolan-sanctioned PPTH cheer squad could wave their pompoms for me. (ie – Cuddy could wiggle her chest in my face. _That_ would totally make me peppy.)

Yeah. Enough of that.

So Wilson says to me, "House, you dashing stud, you – " (I ad lib because it's true.) " – this is hard for me too, you know."

Now, I know I'm sort of a self-centered bastard, Wilson, but no shit. Actually, I should have put that in quotes because that's pretty much what I said to him. "No shit, Wilson. You think I don't know that?"

And then he said, "Tell me what I'm supposed to do, House. I don't know how to help you with this."

Okay, I swear to Jack Daniels, what I wanted to say was, "Just be my friend for once." Well, '_fucking _friend' is what went through my head, but I'm trying to behave myself. Anyway, that's what I _wanted _to say. That's what I was _thinking_, even. But I'm me. So what I actually I told him was, "It wouldn't hurt if you could just stop being a flaming moron for thirty seconds."

I don't know why I couldn't just say it. I mean, how hard could it really be to just ask him to drop the judgment act and the holier-than-thou thing, and fucking _be_ there? I'm so sick of this crap. Just look at this stupid blog. I can't even be serious when no one's around to know; I have to keep making fun of the whole sordid affair. What is that? Nolan would probably say it's a defense mechanism. Which is why he pisses me off. He should just come out say I'm an idiot. _I _would.

Guess it's a good thing I'm not a therapist, huh?

So anyhow, I put my foot in my mouth and Wilson just sat there on the edge of my bed, staring at me. (I was sitting in the chair by the table, just in case you were wondering. We do _not_ occupy the same bed, for any reasons, in any positions, in any state of dress or undress, ever. Okay? Good.) (And no, I do not protest too much. Shut the fuck up.)

Sometimes, I really wish Wilson had a better poker face. He just looked at me like I'd stomped his new puppy. I hate that look, I really do. And yet I keep putting it on his face. To my credit, I apologized like three seconds after I said it. (Can I get a hurrah? Pompom wiggle…)

Wilson just shook his head. You know how he does that – he sighs and looks at the floor, then purses his lips and walks out. But he glances back, just to make sure I know damn well how much I disappointed him, and when he meets my eyes for all of a heartbeat, it's like he's telling me I might as well have punched him. Well, he did that on his way out of the room, and it pissed me off. So I got up and I followed him because damn if I'm going to let him start a real conversation and then run from it like a whiny little spoiled brat. He keeps saying he wants the truth from me, but he never sticks around to hear it. It's been like that for years – maybe forever – and it's not like I was complaining before. We don't have those conversations. Wilson's right and I'm wrong, and I never gave two shits because talking about it was just something I was better off not doing before.

Well, this time, that wasn't good enough because I _wanted_ him to hear it. I've probably wanted that for a long time, actually, but I didn't have the balls to say so. Telling people the truth makes them leave, and if I'm being honest with myself, I was too afraid that he would go to actually have that fight with him. So I kept putting it off, and now I can't anymore because I'm more afraid of ending up back in the nuthouse than I am of losing him.

He asked me to leave him alone ("Fuck off, House.") but I followed him into the kitchen because he's the one who started this. I told him that if he wanted me to move out, he should just say so. (Who the hell knows why I started there, out of all the issues I could have brought up first. We'll call it idiocy.) "If you don't want me here, just say so. You don't have to use your prissy neighbors as an excuse to get rid of me, and you sure as hell don't have to stick me in that fucking room. I wake up every morning with her face staring right at me. If you wanted to drive me out, then good job. I want nothing better than to leave you and your fucking guilt trip here to rot. Alone."

And Wilson said, "House, I loved her. I can't just get rid of everything that reminds me of her."

So I said, "Great. So it's better to force _me_ to think about her too. Every moment of every day, you have to remind me how she's gone and I'm not. Like I could forget."

Wilson yelled, "This isn't about you!" He got all blotchy-faced and everything. Pissed-Wilson is actually a pretty ugly sight. Don't tell him I said that.

And I said, "Like hell it isn't! I _hallucinated _her. I'm not about to forget that she's dead!"

There was more yelling. I wasn't really paying attention to all the crap that spewed forth; arguing with Wilson is sort of a reflex reaction. But he said something, I forget what, and I got the spectacular notion that it would be a great idea to ask if he was just jealous that I got to see her again and he didn't – that when I talked to her, she talked back. So I did. I asked him that.

I have never in my life seen a grown man cry like that. Seriously. Cuddy said something about him being a blubbering mess right before he pulled the plug on Amber, but I wasn't around to see it. And he stayed away for two months afterwards, so I didn't see it then either. I didn't even go to the funeral; Cuddy hadn't released me from the hospital yet. But Wilson just…he crumpled. I figured he might get really angry and throw something at me, but no. He just balled himself up on the kitchen floor and cried. The loud kind of cried. I could still hear him from the bathroom. (Yes, I totally ran away when he started crying, okay? I already know I'm a crappy friend, but I didn't know what to do, and I always make those sorts of things worse, so I figured it was best if I just stopped there. Before I really said something bad.)

After about twenty minutes, everything got real quiet, so I came out. Wilson wasn't in the apartment anymore; he just left, and he didn't come home. I know he's alive, at least. He's in his office; I can see him from here. He's been "working" on the same page of the same file for over an hour now, and he hasn't even glanced at the balcony door. So he knows I'm over here, but I don't know if I'm supposed to go over there or let him be. And if I _do_ go over there, what the hell am I supposed to say to him? He probably doesn't want to be near me right now, or he would have at least come home for a clean shirt. That one he's wearing now has been folded up in his desk drawer for months; it's wrinkled, and I'm pretty sure it was dirty when he put it in there.

So somehow, this whole thing went from being about me to being about him. Which actually seems to happen a lot. It's like I can't take issue with anything he does because he takes every little thing personally. My being creeped out by that bedroom versus his immitigable loss. Guess who trumps who. It's like I can't win with her. She's worm fodder and yet she's still beating me.

And what the fuck is _my_ problem, for that matter? I know right where to twist the knife, but instead of being a good friend and _not_ going there, I not only twist the knife as deep as I can, I make sure the knife has a serrated edge for maximum manglement. I mean, holy shit – I made Wilson _cry_. He had _snot_ all over his face when I left him on the floor. What the hell kind of person does that to their best friend?

Okay, this was absolutely no help. Now I'm just frustrated and pissed off and confused. (There, Nolan, you fucking bastard. I wrote about my _feelings_. I hope you choke on them.) And it's lunch time, and I'm hungry, and nobody's here to make me steal their food. Cameron would probably go buy me something but it's not the same. All I want is a plate of Wilson-tainted french fries. I should be a cliché.

* * *

November 9, 2009

6:16 pm

I'm losing it again. I don't know what to do, and Wilson's not…anywhere. I can't call him. He hates me, I know it. I sound like a raving lunatic, but he does, and I can't. I just can't. He told me to take more Vicodin. He just…he doesn't care. I tried to make it better, and he doesn't care, and she's fucking everywhere.

I have to go someplace or move or something. Walk, whatever. I can't calm down. I'm gonna put the laptop down and go someplace.

* * *

November 9, 2009

10:27 pm

I'm a little drunk, okay? Deal with it. _I _did. Bandwagons are sooooooo overrated.

Okay. Wilson and I got home at the same time, and I offered to make dinner. He just pretended I wasn't there and started chopping vegetables. Then stupid me told him that I was sorry for last night, and I admitted that I stayed up all night waiting for him because I was worried. I actually said I was worried. Can you believe that? Wilson didn't. He scoffed and did that mean chuckle thing he does so well, the one that makes me cringe. I told him I was serious, and he kept at the peppers like he thought he needed to leave notches in the cutting board. I hate it when he just ignores me like that. Really, it just makes me squirm. I have no idea what he expects me to do when he gets like that. Leave? Yell? Apologize more? I told him that all the stress was making my leg hurt, and he just laughed and told me that if it hurt so much, I should take something for it. That's as a good as a "fuck you," coming from him.

That's not even the bad part. I went to my bedroom – _Amber's _bedroom, really, but who's keeping track anymore? It doesn't fucking matter who's room it is now. It's not mine. I walked in there and just…I swear I saw her. It had to be my imagination. The light was off, and her stuff is all over the place – for god's sake, he kept her sunglasses on the nightstand. There was a shadow, probably my own, and it moved, and I just…saw her. For a second. And then I ran. Or, you know. Limped. Right out the front door. And now I'm drunk, so yay for me. Where's my pep squad? I want a fucking cheer.

I have messages from him on my phone. He's doing his exasperated worry thing. The annoyed one. Like, ugh, it's House again, doing House things, and since I'm Wilson I have to stop him because I'm Wilson and it's my job. My _ethical responsibility_. Fucking Wilson, the Self-Righteous Man. I should call him back. Maybe he'll come get me. I could tell him where I am. He'd probably freak.

Oh god, what if she comes again instead of him? I'm not drunk enough for that. I'm gonna call a cab and go home. Wilson doesn't have to know. I have a perfectly good apartment of my own. And a piano.

No, no piano. That made her come too.

Shit. Okay.


	5. November 10, 2009

**Title: **Greg House's Super Secret Blog, 11/10/2009  
**Word Count: **850  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Spoilers: **Through the end of season five, and season 6 to date

**A/N: **This section is really short, I know, but it's for reasons that will become apparent in the post for the 11th. I appreciate all the feedback I've been getting, and I've been trying to respond to all your comments. (FYI, since a few people asked and I couldn't PM them back, yes I am still writing HNTBB - got a chapter almost ready to post. Thanks for loving it!) Anyway, I hope this sounds in character. If not, please, I need to know. I still don't think I have his POV down well enough.

Thanks, everyone!!!

* * *

November 10, 2009

6:02 am

Okay. Somebody find me my effing pep squad. I want a cheer. Cuz I'm at my own apartment, and maybe I was drunk last night and I'm technically not supposed to drink anymore, but there are pills all over the place and I didn't take one. So woo-fucking-hoo for me. (Ugh…I don't even wanna move. Fuck cheering.) So I totally flunked the AA thing, but fuck it. At least no pills made it in. Nolan would call that progress. Sort of. It's a fountain of bullshit, but I'm too hungover to care, so I'll take it.

Dammit, my head is fucking killing me. Hafta get the pep squad to bring me a bottle of Excedrin. I have to go home. Wilson stopped calling and all my meds are there. My leg doesn't hurt, at least. Probably all the alcohol. (Poor liver. I'll send it a condolence card.) (No, wait, no. I don't send cards. _Wilson_ can send it a card. He would, too, just to be a smartass.) I want to go home. This place is cold cuz Wilson canceled the heat when I "went inside." And I have to make sure Amber's not over there. I mean, I know she isn't, and it's stupid, but I have to see. Maybe I can make the shadows again or something, just recreate it so I can stop pretending I'm not worried that it might have actually been her. God, I'm pathetic. Ran and hid like a wussy little girl because I saw a monster in my bedroom. I can't believe I did that, but shit. I swear, it was like the whole world disappeared except for her, and I panicked. Tunnel vision. I can't do that again, the Mayfield thing. If I ever have to go back, I don't think I'll make it out again. Yeah, it sounds all defeatist, but it's…(fuck you, Nolan, for making me say shit like this)…it's a _fear_ of mine. I'm _afraid_ of being crazy again.

*Feeeeelings.

Nothing more than…feeeeeeelings.

Trying to forget my…*

Blegh. I think I threw up a little.

Note to self: Talk to Nolan at the next session. Maybe he can prescribe something for the freak-outs. Wilson could hang onto it or something, if Wilson's still talking to me.

What am I saying? Of course he's still talking to me. He can't choose his friends, so he has no choice but to stay mine. Yay for me again. (Rah-rah.) Ow. Cheering hurts my head. No more peppiness. This blog is now a pep-free zone. Fucking pep.

Hm. My bike's still at the bar. How ironic is that, huh? Bartending dude took my keys again. Did I take the bus here? I can't remember calling a cab. Or paying bus fare, for that matter. I totally polluted myself last night; I must have run up the bar tab from hell. Where the fuck's my wallet? This is great. Somebody took my wallet, but they left me my computer. I have to cancel credit cards and bank cards. Right, well. Later on that. It's what fraud protection's for - they made it just for self-pitying idiots who get too drunk to know where their wallet got to.

Okay. First order of business: pee. And brush my teeth, if I still have a toothbrush here. My mouth is furry. I think I drank a cup full of barber shop clippings at some point last night.

Second order of business: find out what the hell smells like rotten fruit in this place. It's probably just, you know…a rotten piece of fruit. But it needs to go bye-bye.

Third order of business: walk to the diner and get coffee because there's no electricity here, and no gas, so I can't heat water, and I need eggs.

Actually, no, that's four but I'm too lazy to go back and fix it. My laptop screen is already swimming. How's my spelling, for that matter? Fuck it. Bees in a bucket. Number three is take a shower. Cold will do at this point; I can smell my own reek. Then four is walk to the diner.

Fifth order of business: die of hangover.

Sixth order of business: suck it up and call Wilson.

Seventh order of business: find my earplugs so Wilson's lecturing doesn't split my skull open. Again.

Haha. Get it? Cuz he already split my skull open once. Is that funny? My head's pounding too much to tell.

Okay. Where the fuck is my cane? Screw it; I have more in the closet. There's probably Vicodin in there too. Fuck the cheer squad; I need one of those choruses from a morality play to sing doom at me every time I think of Vicodin. Okay, no Vicodin. Gawd…my inner voice of reason sounds like Phil Donahue. WTF. It's okay. I think half of this post makes no sense anyway.

Oh, shit. I'm supposed to be at the hospital. Um. Not like I'm not always late, I guess. I'll call Cuddy and tell her I'm not dead, and then he rest of my bullet points come into play because I still need eggs, and this place still smells like putrid apples.

I hafta pee a lot. Putting laptop down now.


	6. November 11, 2009

Well, back by popular demand (and I thank every one of you for that), here is Greg House's Super Secret Blog! (Sorry for the hiatus. I actually thought I'd mangled the thing beyond comprehension, but all of you convinced me - pretty vehemently - otherwise.) :D I'll try to keep up on it at least a little bit.

Spoilers for all seasons up through all aired episodes of Season 6.

* * *

November 11, 2009

7:52 am

I really fucked up this time. And it's not like I even did anything I haven't done a hundred times before, just…it means worse things this time, I think. Because the whole time I was doing it, I knew I shouldn't, and I knew I didn't want to and that I'd regret it and that I'd just prove everybody right about how I can't change, and I'm still the same old hopeless House. I dunno. Wilson seems…weird about it. Quiet, for one. I didn't get a single scathing criticism about the whole affair, and considering how horribly we fought before I walked out, it makes no sense that he should just go back to playing house.

Ha. Playing House. I crack me up.

After I called Cuddy yesterday to tell her I was taking a personal day, she ran off and tattled to Wilson. I'm sure you can imagine what Wilson did; he put his entire practice on hold and launched himself over to my place like an ironed bat out of hell so that he could get his lectures in before the alcohol wore off. Ha – joke was totally on him for once. He stomped through the door to find my place in shambles, and me sitting on the couch, sobered courtesy of Dunkin Donuts' yummy lattes, with like fifty pill bottles on the coffee table, in the middle of pouring all the pills out into a big bowl.

Yeah, it's not what it sounds like. Wilson did a piss poor job of cleaning the place out – and I'm glad he did, because I never want him to get to a place where he thinks the way I do, like an addict finding the perfect hiding spots. I found all the stuff he missed. That's all. And I was collecting the pills in a bowl so that I could throw the bottles out and then flush them all at once.

When I heard the door open, I figured it was him because it's never been anybody else. And then I figured he'd throw a tantrum and enumerate all of my many and grievous faults for me, in case I had forgotten. So when he didn't say anything for like a minute, I decided to turn around and see if he was still there. I mean, he'd just walked in on me collected a big-ass bowl of opiate heaven; he should have been all purple-faced and accusing me of planning to saturate my blood with them. But he wasn't even moving. He was just, you know…staring. And he had this totally stricken look on his face. It's a good thing I _wasn't_ in the middle of committing suicide, because I'm pretty sure he would have kept right on standing there, watching me finish up. I dunno what it is with him. I think he finally realized he can't save me, but it's like he considers that a failure on _his_ part when it's not about him at all. And to punish himself for failing to save me, I could see him forcing himself to watch me finally kill myself.

Look, whatever Wilson's done to me in the past, I've given back more than tenfold. And _no one _deserves to watch their best friend die as punishment for not sacrificing enough self.

I had to explain four times that I was just getting rid of them. That it wasn't me going out in a blaze of stoned glory. I'm pretty sure the guy was in shock. He'd gone clammy and I could actually see him shaking. He couldn't track my finger, either, and he was hardly breathing. So I shook him and made him sit down and drink one of the coffees I'd brought back from the donut place. It was like I broke him. Not, you know, the way I always thought I would by pissing him off or making him give up on me. I actually _broke _him. It's probably a good thing I was never actually interested in pushing the friendship until it snapped, because I never imagined him reacting like this. I always assumed he'd be fine, maybe even glad to be rid of me. I never thought he'd take my belligerence as if it were _his_ fault I acted this way, as if I would have stopped pushing him if he could have just learned to be the right kind of friend, and then all of my problems would have magically disappeared. When Wilson goes martyr-complex, he goes all out. And I reiterate that line I fed to Vegetative State Guy. Deep inside, Wilson thinks that if he cares enough, he'll never die.

So anyway, he just sat there for a while. I swear, it was like he'd concussed. Dazed, unresponsive, sleepy-looking. I finished consolidating my stash and tossed all the empties, and then I told him I'd be right back. I took the bowl to the bathroom and flushed everything. There could only have been two hundred pills or so; Wilson found most of them before, back in June. Still, there was more than enough in that bowl to royally fuck myself up for a month or two. Wilson probably knew all along that he didn't find everything, so yeah, I can see why he might have been worried when Cuddy told him I was here, and that I sounded fucked up and slurry.

And yes, I hesitated over the toilet, okay? I stared at them for a while. And I touched them, and I thought about saving a few, or taking one as sort of a last hurrah since, hell – I wouldn't be getting more any time soon, right? What could it really hurt, just taking one last Vicodin?

Well, shit – think of the street value. This is the _good_ shit, after all. 750's. Shout out to Tritter, that flaming, butt-licking asshole. You should have bided your time.

I almost did it. I don't like saying it, but I almost flushed the empty toilet to snow Wilson, and tossed the bowl into the linen closet. I don't want to take them, but I don't like being trapped either. At least with the Vicodin around, I have the option. If my leg hurts too much or I'm too stressed or I can't get to sleep, I know they're here. It's not that I want to get addicted to them all over again, it's just… I dunno. They're safe. They've never left me when I really needed them.

So I was thinking this like the sad little maudlin fool that I have apparently become, and then all of a sudden, Wilson was there. I didn't hear him come down the hall, but he was there, and he wasn't lecturing me or telling me to hurry up and do it, he just looked at me and waited. Maybe it's a sign of how much therapy has rotted my brain, but I remembered Nolan telling Wilson and Cuddy that I have the right to choose whether or not to be an addict.

I have to be honest, just because if I don't at least do it here, I won't do it anywhere. Nobody can judge me here, I guess; it's as good as being in my own head, except I tend to forget the things I store only in there, so. I don't want to forget this, in case I ever…you know. Think about changing my mind. I never really wanted off the Vicodin because of the junkie thing. I wanted off of it because of Amber. Getting high is familiar, and it's convenient. It doesn't leave me hung over, and it's so much fucking easier than dealing with stuff sober. I would have kept going until it killed me, if it weren't for Amber. If she weren't dead.

And enough with the introspective crap. I'm getting sap all over my keyboard. Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean off the feeling residue? It gets into everything, like an unsupervised toddler at Toys 'R' Us. Or like me, also at Toys 'R' Us.

Shut it. I like Legos.

Anyway, Wilson was standing there, and for once, I wanted to be the sort of person he keeps telling me I am. Not the irresponsible, pill-popping, manipulative, misanthropic son of a bitch. I mean the one he keeps reminding me of when he plays Jiminy Cricket with my head. The not-so-bad House he smiles at every once in a while.

Oh my god! Stop it with the fucking gooey shit. I'm not writing any more gooey shit today. Blah blah blah, I flushed the damn pills already. There. Story time over. Go to hell.

Wilson watched them all go down with his sad face on. I swear, it was like we were standing at a grave. I had to flush twice, but it was done, and they were gone, and I had an empty bowl for my troubles. (Actually, I think it was one of Wilson's bowls, but eh. Who knows these things for sure?)

So there I am, at the graveside of ten years worth of my life, minding my own god damn business, and Wilson walks up and just grabs me. I totally freaked out. Not ashamed to say that getting man-bear-hugged by my best friend scared the crap out of me. We're talking mortal terror, here. Wilson has never, in his entire life, hugged me. Ever. Hell, I don't even think we touch each other on purpose. There's a buffer zone. Yeah, we're always in each other's faces and messing with each other's stuff and getting way too close when we're sitting around on the couch, but there's no concerted effort to touch. It's a no-fly zone.

And he didn't just hug. He tried to squeeze the fucking life out of me, and this was in the middle of me trying to pull him off by his hair. I mean, Wilson. Jesus. At least Alvie warned me, and I got to slap his ass in front of witnesses as payment for letting him get his feelings all over me. Not to mention the smiley shirt.

Okay, yeah, maybe I stole the shirt, but I left him one of mine in exchange.

That…sounds a lot weirder on paper than I thought it would. Um. Moving on.

So, Wilson's hugging the living shit out of me, right? And fine, I didn't actually try to rip his hair out. I just stood there frozen in complete and utter shock, silently freaking out. He had my arms pinned anyway. And this _thing_, whatever the hell he was doing, it lasted over a minute. I know because I was counting and praying to anything within hearing distance that it would end soon. Finally – _finally!_ – Wilson backed off but he put his hands on my shoulders. I was too stunned to do anything like punch him or shove my cane up his ass (not in the fun way). So I just stood there like a bump on a log or a second year med student at his first trauma call in the ER with my mouth hanging open.

Wilson didn't say anything about the pills. Nothing. Which, honestly, I'm really glad for. I don't think I could take the patronization right now even if he doesn't mean it that way. All he did was tell me that he cleaned all of her stuff out of the room. And then he asked me to come home.

I told him I didn't know if that was really a good idea, but since none of my utilities are switched on, I went back with him. For now, it's not so bad, I suppose. He spent all last night and this morning trying to pretend that the past three days haven't completely sucked ass. And this morning (before he left at some godawfully early time-o-the-clock), he kept making me promise that I would come back tonight right after clinic. I'm done with clinic duty at four today. I have a feeling there's going to be some sort of monumentally serious talk involved in this evening's festivities, but I can live with that. At least Wilson's place doesn't smell like rancid six-month-old fruit. I don't think that smell is ever coming out, least of all because I never did manage to find where the stench was coming from.

* * *

November 11, 2009

7:52pm

I totally called it – Wilson's been playing with the kid gloves in the insane hope that I would be lulled into a false sense of security and not suspect that he was scheming. Or else in the hopes that I would totally get suspicious of his newfound amiability, and that the curiosity would ensure that I didn't try to skip out on the imminent serious talk after work. He totally outdid himself this time, too – that little bastard ambushed me with my own shrink. I walked in and there they both were, lounging around in the living room and acting all chummy. Back-stabbing SOB. Then again, I suppose Wilson deserves a little credit for realizing that at this point, we sort of need a referee if we ever expect any actual communication to result from our "talks."

And now, I shall narrate. The voice of Nolan shall be provided by James Earl Jones. Wilson will be read by Catherine Zeta-Jones. And reading the part of my illustrious self: Pierce Brosnan.

Nolan/Mufasa: Okay, boys. Why don't we sit down and have us a friendly chat.

My Illustrious Self: Yes, let's. I am so looking forward to having a nice, pleasant heart-to-heart with my bestest buddy in the whole wide world. He is such a joy to talk to, since he is always so open and accepting of me.

(No, seriously. That's exactly what I said. )

Wilson/CZ-J: House, please. Can't you just be serious for once?

My Illustrious Self: (transfixed by CZ-J's legs, and the thought of wrapping them around my waist) Fine. But only if you stop being a presumptuous prat.

Wilson: *frowny face*

It totally ruined the leg fantasy, by the way.

Mufasa: I understand your frustration, Doctor House, but as I've already told Doctor Wilson, I plan to patronize you both throughout this session because I am a psychiatrist and it's what I do, and I know better than you about everything even though my marriage is falling apart and I have no personal life and no friends, as evidenced by the fact that I had to bribe one of my patients with a day pass just so I could have someone to sit with while my father kicked it. Oh no, did I say that out loud? What I meant was, "Greg, Do you really think that was necessary?"

(Actually, he didn't really say any of that. So, do-over.)

Mufasa: This will go a lot faster if you both drop the act.

Wilson and My Illustrious Self: *shrivel*

(Mufasa has that effect on people. So does Nolan, come to think of it.)

So there we are, sitting on the couch like the quintessential odd couple, withering under the glare of the Therapist From Hell. It's almost like getting psych-babbled by a slightly more tactful, touchy-feely me-clone. I mean, the guy has The Stare down pat. That "you morons are the most moronic morons I have yet had the moronic pleasure of meeting" stare. And here, I thought I owned intellectual property rights to that stare. Just thinking about it makes me shiver; no wonder people are terrified of me.

Note to self: tone down The Stare unless it's especially warranted. Can't be overdoing it all the time or it might lose its potency. Like Vicodin.

Anyway…enough deflecting. Back to Mufasa and his scary therapy methods.

Mufasa: Let's start with you, Greg. (I hate it when he calls me 'Greg.' Reminds me of my dad, disapproving tone and all.) What do you think started this latest misunderstanding?

M.I.S: (Note to self: I need to find a new acronym for My Illustrious Self.)

Oh. That was me not answering, in case you missed it. Because I sort of pouted and crossed my arms and sat there sulking. Because it wasn't a 'mis-understanding.' (I'm sneering as I type it.) It was Wilson being a dick.

Mufasa: Greg, come on. You know I won't let you get away with that. (And there's the déjà vu of my dad again. Creep.) (The 'creep' applies to both of them.)

Me: I don't know. My leg hurt.

Mufasa and his creepy/annoying ability to tell when I'm lying: Really.

Me: *grumbled something about a stupid redhead*

Wilson: Wait, _that's_ why you were pissed at me? Because I missed movie night? You're telling me that you took a pill because I wouldn't watch a stupid movie with you? God, that's… I don't even know what that is, House.

Me: (Might have lost my temper and shouted at him.)

Mufasa: Greg, calm down for a minute.

Me: *sulk*

Mufasa: James, is this an established activity? This movie night?

Me: _Yes_, it's established. Not like it even matters; he's right. It's stupid. It's a stupid movie. We live together – not like we can't just watch it some other night.

Wilson: I can't believe you took a pill just to get my attention. House, that's path –

Me: (Pretty sure I lost my temper and shouted this time. _Leg_, Wilson. You fucking self-centered drama queen. Has nothing to do with you breaking all your fucking promises to me. Like I should even expect anything from you to begin with.)

Is it just me, or so I sound awfully pathetic? Well, Wilson just said it, so…

Mufasa: It's not pathetic, and it's not unreasonable for you to expect James to keep his promises to you, even over something as trivial as a movie date.

Me and Wilson: It wasn't a date!

Mufasa: *blink* Right.

I think Nolan has some weird ideas about me and Wilson, by the way. Because he does that an awful lot. The whole _I will humor you poor, closeted souls in your bid to remain closeted._ Freak. We're not closeted. Wilson's definitely not closeted. Duh – man whore.

Mufasa: It amounts to the same thing. James promised to be somewhere, you expected him to show, and he didn't.

Me: He preferred to go out and water his dick.

Wilson: House!

Me: What? Like I wouldn't ditch you to go – (insert very vulgar euphemism for sticking-one's-penis-in-some-hot-redhead's-vagina) – if the opportunity presented itself.

Wilson: *apoplectic fit*

Mufasa: Greg, do you find it easier to express your anger by attacking James, rather than just admitting that he hurt your feelings by standing you up?

Me: Yes, actually.

Wilson: I didn't stand him up. It wasn't a date.

Me: Oh, piss off.

Mufasa: Greg, if you aren't going to at least try to be civil, then this will never resolve itself.

Me: This _is_ civil. This is me being civil.

Wilson: He's right, actually. This is House, restrained.

Me: (grudging and still cranky) Thank you.

Wilson: Don't mention it.

Mufasa: Well, at least you agree on something. That's a start.

And blah-blah-blah. Nolan the Sadistic Freudian kept us there for like an hour, rehashing the past four days in excruciating detail. It was the epitome of boredom. I'm pretty sure it didn't actually make any sort of difference, and Wilson started crying over the Amber thing again. Pussy. I told him I shouldn't have said it. The part about him being jealous, that is. I didn't apologize – make no mistake. It hurt Wilson, and it's like…victory, I guess. I made him feel that wringing-your-heart-out thing, and as mean as it is, yeah – it felt pretty good in a twisted sort of way. And I told him that too, that I was glad it hurt him because at least now he knows what it feels like to have your best friend rip you into tiny pieces and then stomp on you. And then he got weepy again, which is just annoying, and _then_ I apologized just to shut him up before he got snot all over the place. God, Wilson; grow a pair.

Then again, who knows. Maybe it helped. I don't think so, but I've been wrong before. (If confronted, I will deny that such a sentiment ever passed my fingertips. I was totally hacked, dude!) Anyway, whatever. Wilson keeps blabbing about some conference he's going to next week, so…I dunno. That's all. I just don't know yet. And I hate that, but what else is new?

Hm. The doorbell just rang. Probably the pizza. Wilson sprang for it and everything (not that he doesn't always pay, but I usually have to trick him into it). So that's progress, right? No more Amber, at least. But I couldn't recreate it – the apparition thing, I mean. Couldn't do it. So…I dunno. I don't want her to come back. I really don't. Ever. She should stay dead.

Wilson's calling. Have to go eat. Ciao.


	7. November 12, 2009

I have a lot of catching up to do, so...ff chapter-spam! (lol - IDK. I blame the Red Bull.) Apologies to all of you who have this on email alerts.

Spoilers for all seasons up through all aired episodes of Season 6.

* * *

November 12, 2009

5:12 pm

Okay. Everything's okay. I mean, I knew Wilson's always been a little, you know. Neurotic. And I know he takes anti-depressants, and I know that taking them means he's depressed, and since he's been taking them for so long that he needed the dosage upped three years ago, it must be clinical depression. Long term, neurochemistry-driven depression. The kind you can't fix with scenery changes and scrumptious desserts, or by winning the lottery, or anything for that matter. I knew that. But Wilson's _Wilson_. He takes happy pills and he does his thing, and he smiles all goofy like, and he bangs every nurse he can flash his stupid dimples at. He's well-adjusted. I mean, _I _know better, but to everyone else, he's Mister Dependability. _I _know he's screwed up, but he's dependably, consistently screwed up. There's a method to Wilson's madness.

Except lately, for the past year and a half, instead of following his usual routines, he's been coming home alone to an empty apartment and talking to his dead girlfriend because he can't let anything go. I knew that too (except for the ghost-whispering part), but the whole coming back thing was so weird and awkward that I didn't want to jeopardize it. And yeah, that sort of makes me a little selfish. Before Amber, I wouldn't have hesitated to call him on it and tell him he was in a rut and then annoy him until he climbed out of it. We can add that to yet another in the long list of things that Amber's death screwed up.

Anyway, I kept thinking all day that Wilson's whole Amber-purge and the come-home thing, and the entire rest of yesterday was just too out of character for him. And then this morning, he wasn't being typical Wilson about me coming straight home after my shift. Not even typical in the Wilson's-a-manipulative-bitch-siccing-therapy-sessions-on-me sense. Typical Wilson would be, "Are you coming home right away, or should I warn all the local bars that your credit cards are no good?" This morning's Wilson just kept giving me these intense, creepy looks. "You're coming home after work, right? Promise? House, promise me." Not to mention yesterday's hug and the begging me to come home with him.

Wilson had a board meeting at four, so when I got here, I figured I had almost two hours before he showed up. I didn't mean to go snooping for once, I swear. I know it sounds un-me to not sift through Wilson's underwear drawer looking for clues or secret clubhouse diaries, but this is supposed to be post-Mayfield bliss, and good friends offer to _talk _when they think something's bothering their bestest bud. Except talking hasn't worked so far, and sometimes, I think Wilson is more of a fortress than I am. That whole persona thing he insists on wearing. So, I decided that his odd behavior (yes, even considering what _I've_ been like the past few days, I find it odd) warranted me snooping just a little bit. It wouldn't even be real snooping. I collected some dirty laundry and I dusted some stuff. And then I dusted again because Wilson yells at me for dusting with a dry towel or the feathery thing. He thinks Pledge protects him from demonic invasion, or something.

So I dusted some stuff, and I had to move all of his tchotchkes off the top of his dresser to do it because he gets his undies in a bunch if I leave dust rings around objects. Well, he has this ornate wooden box on his dresser for holding personal crap like monogrammed cuff links and wedding rings. (The freak still has all three sets of wedding rings, plus two of the engagement rings. Seriously, Wilson. PAWN THEM. And then use the proceeds to buy a blow-up doll. Consider it a reasonable step on the road to not catching an STD.) Anyway, it was way heavier than I thought it would be – the thing is made with good wood. (God, I wish that were a metaphor.)

Anyhow, that's not important. I'm only making lame ass jokes because I'm seriously scared shitless right now. Nolan would be proud of me for admitting that the mockery is a defense mechanism. Whatever. I wish he were here because then _he _could handle this.

I accidentally dropped Wilson's keepsake box, one of the hinges broke off, and his stuff ended up all over the floor. Not just cuff links and pathetic reminders of his failure to keep it in his pants. He had a kit in there too, which makes sense. He works with terminal patients who typically die over the course of weeks, in excruciating pain the whole time. I _know_ he's done it. So have I. That's not what scared me. What scared me was the half a note stuffed in with the morphine. I think it was the start of a suicide note. He dated it for the ninth and addressed it to me. Started off with the "I'm sorry" bullshit and then progressed to some tripe about how it's all his fault. Not conclusive, really, but conclusive enough. I _know_ him.

I should have seen it. I mean, I _did_, I saw everything, but I should have figured out what it meant. I mean, Christ. Back in April when I had Taub steal his emails and that list of articles on suicide came up – back then, I knew it was plausible. Hell, it worried me enough to pry even farther into his business until I could prove that he wasn't messing around with _that_ J. Gonzales. If it weren't so believable, that Wilson might actually be thinking about it or idealizing it or something, I dunno, I would have assumed he was "collaborating" with the suicide chick for some "purely professional" reason. I didn't, though. Because I knew better. And this whole time, now – since he came back, since I came back, both – it's been right there. The whole keeping her stuff exactly where she left it, and the talking to her, and the leaving her clothes hanging up in the closet. I _knew_ he was still completely messed up.

But…god…he's _Wilson_. He's supposed to fix the world like an obsessive missionary. And yeah, he's a screwball and he's got issues coming out his ears, but he's not… He's supposed to be that way, and be fine. He's not supposed to get broken.

Shit. The front door just opened. I have to go.

* * *

November 12, 2009

8:24pm

Wilson swears he's not suicidal. Up and down, sideways and diagonally not suicidal. But he had that look, like he wasn't lying exactly, but it wasn't the whole truth. I don't know what that means. He's not suicidal, but he wouldn't mind screwing himself up a little bit just to have an outlet? That sounds like me, not him. I know we're a little bit alike, but still. That's not him. It's me, and it's pathetic, and Wilson's above that. Or he should be. God, did I ruin him or something? Is that, like, penance for hanging around me for too long? I wouldn't be surprised. I'm like a cancer.

Ha. I'm Wilson's cancer. House-kins lymphoma. Sickle-cell House-kemia. Slow and painful death. Life expectancy, thirty years if caught early and resected. If allowed to fester, imminent morbidity. Takes over every aspect of your life until you fucking kill yourself to end it. Nice.

Yeah, Nolan wouldn't like to hear me talking about myself as if I'm a disease. Like he would know, right? Because I am the embodiment of sunshine and daisies, and feral kittens love me, and all is right as rain when I'm around.

Eh. Does this blog have a bullshit filter? It should. Like that klaxon from Star Trek. And not all that newfangled franchise shit, no. The _real_ Star Trek with motherfucking Kirk and Spock, and the tricorders fourteen times as big as a modern cell phone. Yeah, that. I want that klaxon in my coat pocket. Then I can follow Wilson around and oh-so-secretly set it off when he starts in with the flirty lines and the double-speak he uses to get laid.

Or not. For all I know, getting laid is the only outlet he's got short of using that kit in his bedroom. I took it, by the way. And I made him watch me pour the morphine down the drain. He didn't try to stop me, which I find telling. If he really intended to use that crap to ease the suffering of his patients, he would have tried to stop me. Nothing gets in the way of Wilson treating patients. Or helping them die, if that's what it comes to. Palliative care at its finest, I guess. That can't be easy, giving a crap about your patients while knowing that soon, they'll be dying in agony right in front of you. Wilson hasn't really got the stones for that. He never did. Maybe he only became an oncologist to punish himself. Seems simplistic, but who knows. This is _Wilson_, right? The Irredeemable Martyr?

I don't know what to do about him. At least with him being all weird, I'm not focusing on myself anymore. That has to count for something. I'd almost suspect he was fucking with me, except I know him a little better than that, and suicidal ideation for entertainment sake isn't his style. It would be cruel to fake that, and Wilson can't be deliberately cruel. Stupidly and densely and blindly cruel, yeah. But not deliberately.

I'll watch him. If he won't (or can't) admit it, then there's nothing else I can do, right?

I wish somebody was actually reading this so they could answer that. Maybe I can ask Nolan. It's his field, right? (In theory. I still think he's a well-practiced quack.)

Wilson's under the mistaken impression that I'm going to that conference with him tomorrow. I keep telling him no, but I'm going now. I sort of have to, I think. Not that he has to know that I intend to go, but I'm going if I have to drive down there myself. Period. I took a nap earlier and had this nightmare that Cuddy called me to say Wilson didn't show up for his presentation, and then I went down there and found him. You know. Dead. But he had bruises all over his body like Amber, and he cold like her, and Chase said they cooled him down so I could come say goodbye. It was creepy. Like wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat creepy. No way it's happening. No. Just no. I should talk to him or something, but I hate being a hypocrite. What am I supposed to say, huh? Killing yourself is bad, and oh by the way, all those times I (nearly) killed myself, I was kidding. Haha! Gotcha. Now don't do it.

Like that would work, coming from me. He'd laugh in my face. Thing is, he'd be right to do it. Laugh, I mean. Like I never at least think about how much easier it would be if I just weren't here. But Wilson's _Wilson_. He doesn't have to contemplate that shit. He's...Wilson. That should be enough.

...

Somebody tell me what to do.


	8. November 13, 2009

Wow, you guys like this one! *is happeeeeee* :D So, here's more!

Spoilers for all seasons up through all aired episodes of Season 6, but major for the medical conference episode of season 6. You might want to brush up on it before reading.

A/N: Celine Dion is not so bad, really. I have nothing personal against her, and I wish no harm on her. House might, though...who knows these things for sure?

* * *

November 13, 2009

1:02am

I am officially gay (in the euphemistic sense). (Pervert. I know what you're thinking.) I just spent three hours making my blog pretty with "skins" and graphics and color charts and aesthetically pleasing layouts and…I feel effeminate. Is this how Wilson feels when he picks out curtains and kitchenware? No wonder he has delusions of morphine trips. In fact, I feel self-destructive myself. I mean, look – you can see it. I picked pastels, for Christ's sake. Pretty blue pastels, even. Because it looked relaxing in the preview pane. And now, I can't help noticing that the background color compliments my eyes. I mean, WTF? I'm a dude. I should have monster trucks and neon green on black, right? But no. I have a pretty array of soft blues, and a header photo of some porpoise (unfortunately, not one swimming with a naked chick this time. I lost my bookmarks to that site.)

Anyway, why the hell am I describing it to you? You can see it. For that matter, who am I talking to? Nobody reads this. It's set to private. Screw you all. Or _me_ all. Or…fuck it. I forgot what I was insulting.

Wilson's in bed now, asleep. Or at least I think so, because I haven't heard him channeling dead girlfriends for about an hour and a half now. I'm overreacting, right? There are studies out that claim that depressed people with a suicide plan are less likely to follow through than depressed people without one. Something about feeling less trapped. I could see that, I guess. (Hello, stash of 600 Vicodin pills.) But it doesn't make me any less scared shitless. I mean, seriously. _Less_ likely, not _zero_ likely. Hell, look at me.

Gah. I need to pretend to sleep. We're supposed to road trip up to that conference thing in the morning, not that Wilson knows I plan to go yet. I have to work on how to fight it without him telling me to just stay here. Because, you know; I can't just go, right? He has to talk me into it somehow, or threaten me, or manipulate me… How sad is it that I have to manipulate my own best friend into manipulating me into going someplace I already want to go, just because I can't admit I'm worried enough about him to tag along, and he can't admit that he wants me tagging along. Or, um…the first half of that, anyway. I don't know what Wilson wants anymore. For all I know, he can't wait until I move out, and having me here in the middle of his mourning flat is half of what's wrong with him. Like the constant reminder of Amber in this hell hole wasn't enough before her killer shacked up with him.

Ugh. I didn't kill her. It was a freak accident. Not my fault. (I am banging the keys – repeat ten times, Nolan says. Every time you reflexively think "I killed her," you must repeat the mantra ten times. How long do I have to do this shit, I ask? And he says, "Until you believe it." I hate that man sometimes. Seriously. Instead of making believe that I didn't kill her, he's just turning me into a crazy mutterer. Mutter-mutter-mutter. And this is why therapy is _good_ for me?)

Well. I am off to mutter myself to sleep. Goodnight, interwebs.

* * *

November 13, 2009

8:22am

I found an alibi. Doctor Pearlmutter signed up for the conference, but he will be indisposed all weekend, according to his very helpful and somewhat dumb personal assistant. I just like the name because the irony appeals to me. Pearl_mutter_. Haha!

Shut up. I'm easily amused.

Anyway, all I have to do now is make it seem like I only want to go now because Cuddy's going. Which, you know…that might have worked even if I weren't worried about Wilson, because I am 99.2% sure that I would have wanted to go just to have an opportunity to screw with her. Euphemistically or otherwise, should the opportunity present. Not that I'd ever admit to worrying about Wilson. I don't worry about other people. Ever. Unless it's Wilson, and he doesn't find out about it, in which case, yeah. I worry. So…whatever. STFU.

Eh. Does that sound like bullshit? The Cuddy part, not the worrying part. The funny thing is, I don't know if I'm really into that anymore. And before you go making assumptions about my manhood and the pretty coordinated pastel profile scheme, of course I'm _into_ that. I still think she's hot, of course. Who wouldn't? And I still kinda want to tap that. But every time I think about it, I just remember the stupid…you know. The hallucination. It makes me feel sort of funny. Like, sick almost, I think. Sort of ashamed, but that's not the right word either, and sort of a little scared because it was so fucking real except for the part where it wasn't. Jesus, what the hell was I doing for that hour, anyway? I mean, for real. I have no idea. And Cuddy's part of that – me wanting her is part of that. I don't know if I'm actually okay with that.

Plus, I sort of embarrassed her in front of half the hospital by shouting from the balcony that I did her, so… If she doesn't kind of hate me or hope to never have anything further to do with me outside of a professional context, then she probably thinks I'm a poor little broken creature, like a bird with a snapped wing or something.

No, ew, ick - that's too nauseatingly poetic. I now have Celine Dion lyrics playing in my head. Flying cripple hearts…whatever. DIE, WENCH OF CANADA!!!

Amend that to snake with a broken rattle. Yeah, that's cooler. I can handle that one, cuz I'm still poisonous and deadly that way.

Anyway, the point is, I've been treading on eggshells around her ever since I got back, and she's been doing the same damn thing, like she's afraid I'll break again if she looks at me wrong. I mean, part of that night was real – I went into her office, and I insulted her (it was a really good one, too – stabbed her right in her perky little chest). Anyway, I can't even…I don't know. I can't figure out how I just didn't see her leave the office and walk away from me. I can't. And she knows it, too. She's got the kid gloves on around me, like I'm wearing a "Don't upset the crazies" sign.

I think I'm pissed at her for walking away. I think I'm really just mad that she wasn't still in that room when I asked for her help. Because, you know – I _asked_, dammit. And nobody fucking heard me. Why is that? Am I whispering, or something? Are they deaf?

Whatever. I'm making myself mad which, according to Mufasa, is not the point of this blog. So, fuck you all. I have a Wilson to con.

* * *

November 13, 2009

3:03pm

(internet via cell phone)

Oh. My. God. Please shoot me. Please. _Please_, I'll do anything you want if you just end me now.

I am stuck in a Volvo with Wilson, his _stupid_ Gilbert and Sullivan CD box set, Cuddy (who is singing along with Wilson, wtf), and a screaming baby that smells like screaming baby.

God, why? What did I ever do to you, besides curse you and deny your existence, and harass your moronic (yet blindly faithful) followers, and maybe usurp your alter for the sake of theatrics, and mock you, and challenge your usefulness/authority/intelligence/intelligent design/wisdom/bishops/popes/miraculousness/fables/foibles/sheep… I'm sure you have a list somewhere. But seriously – Gilbert and Sullivan? That's just mean. In fact, didn't the guys at Gitmo play this sort of crap for days on end as a method of torture? Smart guys. _I'd_ fold. Even if I weren't a terrorist, I'd totally make some shit up just to end the agony. I'm thinking of doing it now, as a matter of fact. Think Wilson will buy it? I should call Homeland Security with a bogus confession. They'll totally come rescue me, probably with a helicopter and everything.

I'm making a break for it at the next rest stop. Wilson's unconfirmed self-destructive tendencies aren't worth this. That, and I really have a taste for Doritos. And a grape soda.

* * *

November 13, 2009

3:31pm

(internet via cell phone)

What sort of gas station does _not_ carry grape soda? I'm writing them a letter the second we get to the lodge. It's unpatriotic.

Ew. Now I sound like Wilson whining over the order of the cheese versus the mushrooms in his melty sandwich thing.

Wilson just told me to quit whining. What, like he can tell I'm whining by the dead silent manner in which I'm sitting here, innocently punching the tiny letter buttons on my keypad? (Okay, yeah, he probably can. Freak.) (And note to Motorola: real people have fingers that are like 13 times the size of these tiny effing letter buttons on the flip-out keyboard. And using that gay little stylus to hit the buttons is impossible in a moving vehicle, btw. In case it didn't come up in product testing. Get a better demographic, you cheap-ass losers.)

Wilson knows I'm still whining. He brought his psychic squint with him today. I have to sign off now; it's difficult to whine and type with my thumbnails at the same time.

* * *

November 13, 2009

11:40pm

Wow. Total disaster. Like, crash and burn and abandoned on the dance floor dressed like a fop, kind of disaster. (A dashing, ruggedly handsome fop, mind you. Oh, yeah – believe it. I mean, seriously – _I'd _do me, dressed like that.)

Anyway. My knee sock fetish is so not the point, here. Moving on.

Why, you ask me, did she leave you standing there without so much as a by-your-leave? I shall tell you why. Because *gasp* apparently, I am not quite the unmitigated bastard she has thought me to be for the past twenty five years.

See, boys and girls? That's what happens when you make assumptions about people. You look like an ass, and you make the other person feel like an ass when he actually had the (semi)noblest intentions at heart, which plans only went awry due to unavoidable circumstances of fate. (Getting kicked out of college is an unavoidable circumstance of fate, yes. Because if it weren't for fate and tattle-tales, I would never have gotten caught...um. Doing whatever the hell I did that time. I don't even remember anymore.) And then you run away all pouty-faced with crappy 80's music taunting you the whole way out.

On the plus side, she was definitely flirting with me. In a subtle, understated, I don't want to foment another psychotic break kind of way. But hey – we were slow dancing, right? I'm talking full frontal contact. You can't do that, and not be flirting. _And _she liked my cane. Heh. (Yeah, I'm juvenile. What of it?)

I am so in. Can I get a hell yeah? *pep squad*


End file.
